


Vive maison de Osborn

by Auroraaa



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dark Romance, Death, F/M, Other, Suicide, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auroraaa/pseuds/Auroraaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norman Osborn is dead.<br/>But is there more to his death than all of them had anticipated?<br/>Harry battles in a war against his demons whilst all his friends are caught in the cross fire. A story told through the eyes of three friends;<br/>Who would die for each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys this is my first attempt at fan fic. wish me luck X

Prologue- The king has fallen 

 

Silence engulfed the walls of the master bedroom. In the sheets of silk flaxen slept a king. A king of science, an empire passed down through generations. The crimson jewels were encrusted into the gold pillars of the bed because he had wanted to end it all where it had began. The very same bad Rosalie Osborn had given birth to him in. Benjamin, Theodore and Nicholas were his brothers before. All now laying six foot under the Osborn cemetery.   
The thought of death had always humoured the king as he saw himself as immortal. All the Osborn's did but they all seemed to put to bed the old saying of theirs. 'Indestructible minds, indestructible wills , weakened bodies,"   
Norman Osborn slept , his body a pile of pale, frigid bones. Ethiopian children had seen better days. His eyes pools of shallow blue , his pupils had almost drowned in the darkness. It was his time and we both knew it. God had written his name in the book of hell. There was no prayer in the world that was going to save him now.   
For hours I had sat in the emptiness of his room. Listening to him breath heavily and cough up sickly colours of phlegm. ' Drip' went his iv as it supplied him with blood he was losing every second.  
Ever since I was 12 I had wished upon his demise, the thought played through my mind on repeat. Now the time had finally come. My heart struggled to feel any emotion except hate, struggle and fear. How were you supposed to feel remorseful for the man who ruined your life? Memories, heart and mind. These last couple of months had driven me to the cliffs of insanity. It was like no matter where he was, Norman Osborn always had an eternal grip over my well being. I guess I made the deal with the devil the day I accepted my trust fund . My dimmed ocean orbs had flickered shut as my will had given in to sleep.   
Spindly fingers shook me breaking my trance, open were my eyes as they witnessed what I was about to do in horror. The trigger of the metallic ebony glock was gripped by my convulsing fingers. Cold was the perspiration that made my sleeves stick to my skin. His breathing muffled by the bullet exit path that sat between his lips. Withered and grey.  
Tears burned down my cheeks like mustard gas as I tried to pull it away but I couldn't. " Dad Whats happening?" I cried the word that I hadn't spoken of in my whole entire life. Dad was the word you called the man who bought you up with love and respect. The man every boy aspired to be. A father was just a man who participated in the making of you. I watched tears slowly fall from his sunken orbs.   
Tears of regret and sorrow. He had pulled the gun away for a second to speak " Harry," he croaked reaching for my cheek " There is more to this world than you grew up seeing,"  
My voice trembled at his touch, suddenly I was 12 again pleading him not to send me away. " Daddy make it stop!" Uncontrollably tears fell as if my body was the niagra. He flashed the hereditary Osborn grin and within seconds his hands were around mine letting me pull the trigger.   
My screams had turned into white noise as blood trickled down his milk white sheets. I had killed my own father, the monster inside of me had been unleashed. bang!  
The sun slept as I began gasping for air. When I would from my sea of thought I felt around for a body, blood. Had it all been a dream? I had gotten up , my room surrounded with plastic sheets as if it was under construction. My bare footsteps echoed against the bleak Italian tiles. The images felt real, too real that I ha to go and check. Maybe it was a sign that deep down I needed to forgive my father before he really did die. As I got closer to his room the panicked prayers increased in pace. What was he doing? I couldn't believe that after so many year of suffering i had an ounce of compassion for that man. The hysteria of his voice sounded genuine as I stepped closer towards him. Bewilderment had crossed my face as I saw his frail papery body on the ground facing the window. It looked like the struggle to move was hard for him. " Father?"   
" Propistious Humano dominius," his voice trembled as the repetition got faster. He sat on his knees submissive to the moonlight. Static noise filled my ears as I notice the revolver under his chin. Eyes widened I tried to stop him, I hurled towards him with all my night but I wasn't Pietro Maximoff or Spiderman. He was gone. Norman Osborn was dead. His shrivelled frame crippled over onto the mahogany floor boards, the corpse drowning in its own blood. Falling to my knees, his body was covered by mine like a blanket. I held onto him as I was making up for all those times our relationship lacked intimacy. I wanted to be a child again, a child with no worries or strife, a boy with a father. I wanted to be a babe asleep in my mothers arms unaware of how scary and corrupt the world was.   
' Prospitious Humano dominius,'  
' May the Lord forgive the human race,"


	2. The prodigy returns

 

[Three mo nths earlier]

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

That’s the thing about family, you can't chose who they are. You can't chose who carries  your blood line, he told me it was all for a greater cause but every decision my father made seemed to be for a greater unknown cause. I've had 10 years to stew over my animosity, you'd expect it to somehow disappear. My love for my father to be suddenly kindled as if nothing had ever happened but the time hadn't done anything but make it stronger. As the limo got closer and closer to the manor, I couldn't help but imagine wringing my hands around his elongated neck. A feature that had somewhat always added a sinister glow to my fathers demeanor; many were fearful where as I was just repulsed. 

The silent hums of the engine were the only sounds in the car and it was driving me crazy. It furiously reminded me of the afternoons where my father would go hours without speaking a word, only tending to his scotch.  Oscorp  and Scotch had been the only things he had ever loved more than his own flesh and blood, surprisingly it hadn't always been like that. There was a point in existence where Norman Osborn was a father, someone who cared but it was a time so long ago. Before death had plagued the house of Osborn. 

Its been 10 years. I hadn't  touched New York, breathed New York or even tasted the bitter air of pollution . Did I miss it? An endless city of bad memories; Why would I? But I guess all things end where they began, who knows this might be a cyclical end to my tragic story of a life. 

The golden gates to my past stood tall, protecting a house of a man that ruined my life. He had called upon me after sending me away to London as if I was a monster. An abomination. Damned me to a life of violent religious torture and harsh teachings. A father he was but humane he was not.Why had he called upon me after so many years? Only the regular bottles of scotch for my birthdays, kind regards Norman Osborn, the italic letters scorched into my mind. I hated scotch. 

" Welcome back master Osborn," A voice spoke as I entered the old Victorian life unlike the urban city life I had adjusted to over the years. He sounded like he knew me, as if I was an old friend but the grayed man was of no familiarity to me. Much like most things in this house, 12 year old me saw things that 22 year old me could not understand. Smiling politely whilst a blank look surpassed my face, the old man looked disappointed. As if I was supposed to know who he was, I'm supposed to hug him or something. 

"Up the spiral stairs. Down the pit of doom..."

Nostalgia slapped   me in the face. The pictures in the lustrous frames; Norman Osborn shows off his nuclear family. The perfect wife, the perfect son (?) and the perfect life. He had it all but the grim reaper had called his bluff and taken it all away from him one by one. At the top of the stairs there she was, as if she was alive. Illustrated in hues of crimson and sapphire , Emily Thomas Osborn. Just her warm stare of ice sent a rush of ache in my  chest, a form of torture. I'm sure of it because I don't remember it. I don't remember her face bringing me so much pain. 

Stronger. Pungent and acidic. It was as if someone had let an OCD patient free in the halls. It smelt like a hospital. I had been directed into my father's room, it seemed untouched from the outside. Sealed off. Pushing it open, I entered. An even stronger smell overtook. A lingering mist of death, the air bitter and dense I felt ready to topple over and hurl at any moment. For a moment my eyes struggled in the blinding darkness but soon adjusted through the help of the desolate peeks of light from the peaks in the curtains. 

Forsaken. He was a body without a soul, without color or life but you could still hear his heart  feebishly  make attempts to keep him alive. I couldn't help it. As much as I tried to hold it back, it was inevitable. My father was dying and standing there hurt. Like someone had punched me in the gut. " Not again," I muttered trying to swallow the pain in my throat. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. God's revolver strikes again.


	3. Pretty girl ugly confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I'm changing the writing style cause it just suits. X

" I'm sorry Miss Watson but you're just not what we're looking for."

 

Every single syllable seemed like a slap in the face.

 

It seemed like if MJ was to have a dollar for every time she heard those words, she'd be as rich as Tony Stark but that's what they'd ever only be. Ifs. New York, the city of lights and hope. A whole bunch of BS, she thought hugging her chest as she walked down broadway coldness biting through her skin. All her life she had dreamed of the moment where she'd be an actress, the grace Kelley type but God damn was it harder than it looked. The streets were briefly illuminated by the flickering street lights, shadowed by the big city ones. It was like the whole city itself was one big fat gimmick. Hushed curses escaped her bitter lips as she fumbled through her purse, searching for her keys. Fingers numb from the air. F-you november. A fiery burning sensation had built up as she walked up the five flights of stairs to her apartment but as soon as she got into her bedroom she toppled over onto her bed and let tears escape. Maybe she was better off as a secretary. After an hour so of a self hating session, the red head changed out of her clothes and got into her pajamas. She tied her dark crimson locks into a loose bun before she went scouting through the kitchen for a meal, yeah she ate for comfort. What girl didn't. She was size 10 and proud. Looking around her mundane apartment, she sighed. A wash of regret succumbing her, had this really what life had come to?

 

 Mj walked around the apartment, wallpaper peeling off, mould seeping out of every crevice. She just had no energy to clean, or even venture into parts of her apartment to ' check them out ' Stray pictures hung about the place, unevenly collecting dust. Nostalgia was a bitch. The red head felt envious of her former self, ever so happy and careless as she held onto her graduation hat with much prosper. Another with an image with her aunt, oh her aunt. The mother she never had, the only family she ever needed. Mary Jane called as much as she could, it was the least that she could do. Beside her bed  there was a picture she never really looked at so when she did actually inspect it, a warm feeling had hugged her heart on a freezing November night. There she was, hair red as strawberries. Eyes covered by shades but you could tell she was smiling. Beside her were two boys, men. One messy brown hair as if it had never seen a brush before, his eyes covered by glasses that seemed to big to fit his face,and on the other side the boy was tall. 5'8, broad shoulders and he seemed well kept. Eyes as blue as a night out in New Orleans. Tortured yet ever so beautiful. A smile, handsome but it pained him. A burning sensation had filled her chest, she missed the past like an old lover. She'd do anything to get those moments back but Harry was probably in some fancy business firm in London and Peter. His heart was too big to stay in New York, she was sure of it.

 


	4. Run rabbit run.

Peter Parker was your definition of normal. He lived with his aunt in the Bronx and he made a living taking pictures for the bugle. There was nothing extra ordinary about the boy. Spider man on the other hand...

A red masked vigilante who roamed the streets of New York protecting his people. Confident, snarky and brave. Everything Peter Parker wasn't but how long till Peter became his mask. How long till the world started to see him as Spider not Peter the nerd? It would be a day the boy certainly feared, outrunning the inevitable was impossible. As one day the world would find out, but till then he would do what he had to do.

Scruffy and unorganized. Peter sprinted down the 86th, he was late. And Jameson did not take kindly to the tardy. " Sorry, excuse me." He muttered every five seconds when he bumped into someone. Peter prayed he would make it on time, genre was a hint of temptation to use his powered but it was too risky. Jameson had ordered him to get pictures ' Spider-man' it was all he ever asked for. Sweat trickled down his forehead, every where to be exact. As he arrived at the bugle reception, signing in he was breathless but he still had many stairs to conquer. 

" B-Betty" he gaped as he reached outside Jameson's door, practically smelling like a gym room. 

" Damn Parker Whatchya do, run a marathon?" There was a sarky itch to her voice as she took the file from Peter's hand. Full of what Jameson had asked for.

" Yeah you could say that." Peter took the nearest bottle of water he could find around him and chugged as if his life depended on it. 

" There's a staff meeting like right about now so you better hurry," She replied.

Peter gasped like a fool and ran to the meeting room, combing his hair in the process. Slowly he tried to sneak into the room but Jameson's hawk like senses were too sharp for him. " Nice of you to join us Parker," He spluttered, a cloud of tobacco smoke following. Mouthing an apology, peter sat down before he made any more of a fool of himself. He listened attentively as Jameson displayed some images of there latest story. Frozen. Peter gaped at the image on the screen, it couldn't be. He thought. " So looks whose back in town," Jameson chuckled " Osborn junior is here to claim his throne and you all have to revolve your lives around this story. Even if it kills you all." Peter zoned out for a brief moment as he stared at his old friend, wondering if it was all an hallucination. If the ghost in front of him was actually real.


	5. Cat got your tongue?

Later that week, press conferences,interviews and public appearences had engulfed the young heir's life. Partying and drugs had seemed to be something of the past. Harry sat at his desk--correction. His father's desk, Norman Osborn CEO still indented in gold on the door. Hanging his head low, he inhaled any strife that had been clouding his thoughts like mustard gas. Exhaling rapidly. The life he was given - loved him. A pestering lover that would not let go- the feeling was never mutual. He feared the inevitable as it was a dark, dark tunnel into an abyss. His future. Seeing his father in such a state only made him realize that OSCORP would drive him to the same great damned destiny. 

Nursing a crystal glass of vodka ( he hated scotch) Harry looked out onot the New York city skyline, the view was hysterical- how could something so beautiful be so excrutiatingly corrupt at the same time. Harry feared for his future generation. A knock- interupting his indulgence of a silence oh what a soothing nature. THe young heir broke his longing gaze at thelady of liberty to make a reply. " Come in," his tone had surprised him, a proffesional tenor he did not know he had.

Cat like- silently she entered his office as if she had been there all that time. Raven like- her posture was accentuated but it never meant to and her hair darker than a dead mans soul reaping apologies . Softly, her features sat on her paled albaster skin like swans in a ballet recital. "Mr Osborn?" She was a thief. Guilty of purging his attention. Dainty, her eyes had done the color green ever so much justice. "I've been assigned to assist you with your time here." There was something about that girl, blessed by such perfection but even God himself knew that she didn't deserve it. 

"What's your name?" Leaning back on his seat, his grin worth more than his building.

"Felicia," Sweet velvet, her voice was a cry of lust in his ears. " I have papers for you to sign sir. Just legal formailities," She stepped forward-he leaned closer.

" Harry would do just fine. Leave Mr Osborn to the old man hey," He gave her a smile, laced with warafin. Waltzing around like Jay Gatsby himself(her scent) was the master and his senses were her slave. 

She chuckled as she began to back out of the room without permission. " Goodbye Harry," And within seconds, she had become the voice of every ex girlfriend ever. Maybe he preferred Mister Osborn.


	6. Long lost connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cast  
> Harry......Dane Dehaan  
> Norman.....Daniel Craig  
> MJ....... Holland Roden  
> Peter..........Andrew Garfield  
> Felicia...... Felicity Jones  
> Gwen...... Emma Stone

Late.. Once again her alarm clock had failed to please. Swaying through the large crowds of New Yorker's, MJ dodged several bodies with hushed apologies and curses. Red hair flying over her shoulders as she had oh so little time to take care of it, along with the rest of her clothing- top button undone and all. The red head attempted to sneak in unnoticed but her boss was an old angry man with a whole load of vigilance. " Is this what I pay you for!" she winced as he bellowed from his grimy office. Where she was pretty sure he was not allowed to smoke. 

" I'm sorry Mr Yokkum. I had to take my aunt to the hospital" When in doubt, extravagantly lie your way out.

" Well don't do it again or I'll put you on dishes for the rest of the week." He wheezed, a tar filled cough not trailing far behind. 

" Thank you sir," MJ had no choice but to be nice. Not many people took in media school flunks. She was that kind of girl; she'd start one path then fall ridiculously in love with the next one but blindly. Oh how ever so blindly.Under her breath she muttered swear words and thought of ways she'd kill her boss because that is really what every under paid waitress really dreams of.   
The red head silently nodded at her fellow unfortunate colleague's. The room of women stank of desperation. Deeply sighing, MJ had tied back her crimson curls into a neat bun before she began her shift. A long one it was indeed. 

A couple of hours later...

The greasy stench of bacon lingered in the air as MJ began packing away the last of the dishes, a red sign saying closed hung outside the door. MJ had drawn the short straw and she was left to lock up with the bus boy who was out back doing dishes. The red head hummed a song from The script in her head, it had been stuck there for a good couple of days. They had some what let her kindle with her irish heritage. Moving her hips to the tune she was humming, unaware of the tv that was flickering in the background. Even though it was the lowest resolution ever, the sound seemed listenable. The music stopped. Hums had floated away with the wind and her feet stopped moving. Emerald green, her eyes fixated on the screen in the corner of the room. She had gone pale as if she had seen a ghost, well she had.  
"Prodigal son returns,"


	7. Brother in arms

Peter started to bite his nails as he rode the tube back home. Old habits really did die hard. The boy was still pale from seeing his childhood bestfriend, the brother he never had butboth were kept apart when Harry was sent to boarding school in London. He was back. Pwter did not know if anxious was the right feeling, he should have been happy. His old friend but he could not help but feel a sense of over whelming despair. After all these years, Peter feared that there was something about him that had changed. Not for the good...

"Hey aunt May," Peter planted a kiss on her cheek as he sped into the kitchen: starving.

" How was work?" She smiled whilst collecting stray bits of laundary.

" Well, I was sorta kinda a little bit late but Jameson didn't mind," It was a half truth. "And guess who is back in town," He peeled back the foil on his sandwhich. Knowing tha thenews would at least give aunt May some comfort. "Harry's back Aunt May," He spoke, mouth half full.

Her face lit up with joy and Peter was pretty sure that she was on the brink of tears. " Oh my, the boy has probably grown so much... You must invite him around for dinner," She became flustered as she began her usual ramble. " Does he still like sweet potato? Gosh we need to go shopping." A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Easy there Aunt May, he is not that easy to reach. He's a busy guy" Peter struggled for excuses as he knew what her next demand was going to be and he was dreading it.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Peter gawped at how big the house was as he had almost forgotten. Ten years, a life time ago they were celebrating Harry's ninth birthday; all three of them. He had felt so underdressed in a house so big and was sure tha he had gotten in too easily. It seemed like the white haired butler had recognised him. As the butler went to call Harry, a knot tightened in his stomach. What would he say? Would he even be glad to see him ?The webbed hero even contemplated going home but it was too late. "Peter...Parker..." His voice was deeper than he remembered for obvious reasons but it lacked a certain electricity that every 20 year old should of had. It was worn like a veteran reliving battle nightmares, almost unrecognisable. The boy stood at the top of the spiriling stares, looking dressed up for some sort of event. That was Harry in a suit.

" It's been too long." Peter spoke in a low voice,his throat hurt.

A perfect shaped grin formed on his lips as he started walking down the stairs. " I didn't recognise you without the braces,"A chuckld followed his lips and Pete as glad that it was not at all awkward. The knot loosened.

"Well I dont remember you being this tall," Pete relied trying to be witty. " Giselle still blow dry your hair every morning?"

" Nope," Harry was now stood beside him and he was really taller in real life. Peter would deduce six foot at least. " Sara does it now," He grinned widely as he smacked Peter's back playfully before bringing him into a bro hug. " God dammit . Its been too long Parker,"

He reeked of after shave, the expensive kind that wouldn't make you feel light headed. "What brings you back?" A question he was sure the whole of New York was thinking.

Harry paused for a bit before answering. Peter noticed the struggle of hid words. " It hasn't been announced on the news so please lets keep a hush about it." He paused again and stared at Peter with his bulging blue eyes. There was something chilling about how violated he felt, as if he wad stared into his soul. "My father he is dying Peter..."Peter understood why he had spoken so fast as it was shocking news. He hadn't known much about Norman Osborn growing up only that hewas his fathers best friend :they had built an empire together. He also knew that he wasn't the greatest faher. Peter had seen it with his own eys,Norman was always so cold and distant. Peter remembered his icy glare,it was the same one Harry had inherited.

" Care for a bite, old sport?"


End file.
